


I'd probably still adore you with your hands around my neck

by Cruel_Cupid



Series: A Cure for Addiction [2]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Angst, Established Relationship, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Smut, mild choking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cruel_Cupid/pseuds/Cruel_Cupid
Summary: Seungcheol doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t want to be that lonely boy anymore. He wants to love and be loved, no matter how terrible the price.
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Yoon Jeonghan
Series: A Cure for Addiction [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660105
Comments: 8
Kudos: 109





	I'd probably still adore you with your hands around my neck

**Author's Note:**

> I was so certain I wasn't gonna do an acfa continuation but then I heard '505' by the Arctic Monkeys playing in a shop in London and I this suddenly came into my mind...

It hasn’t even been a particularly long drive. 

What was it? Forty-five minutes? Less, even? The interior of his car is a dark, sleekly designed liminal space; the heater keeps the old familiar tesla at a temperature that is too comfortable. Too forgiving. Seungcheol thinks that maybe if he were a little colder, shivering in his seat, he might feel less unhinged. He might feel a little more like a human being and less like a shadow of himself. 

Streetlights pass at regular intervals, each one a rhythmic, hypnotic glow of cerebral light that he acknowledges distantly. Seungcheol is aware of the road beneath him and the road ahead; his right hand gripping the wheel; the three unanswered texts flashing up on his phone.

It’s like an itch, wanting to talk to Jeonghan. A sickness maybe. No— it’s like what Joshua always said it was:

_An addiction._

Seungcheol has to discipline himself. _Eyes on the road— don’t look down at the screen, don’t even think about the boy you’re driving to._

Any minute now he’ll be pulling up to the street where Jeonghan still lives – where he himself lives now – and it feels like a whole world away from the depths of his father’s corporate realm with its meeting rooms and chic architecture. Seungcheol is still wearing his black suit with his black shoes and his neatly combed black hair – he feels like he’s Orpheus making the trip back from the underworld. And Seungcheol has always been looking back at his Eurydice from the precipice of life – Jeonghan is present but distant, still clinging to the life that Seungcheol has left behind.

If the myth is as true as he suspects it is, it’s only a matter of time until Jeonghan vanishes for good.

When Seungcheol stops the car, the sun is lowering its gaze. The sky is a transient mix of gold and deep blue. The moon is already out, like a crescent-shaped omen curved beneath the edge of a cloud. He notices all of this because he doesn’t want to think about the fact that Jeonghan isn’t waiting for him at the door – nor has he been, for the last few days. It’s a tradition that normally runs like clockwork, fuelled by the unshakable certainty of Jeonghan’s love for routine.

There are things they always do, like watching documentaries with dinner, buttoning up each other’s shirts and planting careless kisses on cheeks each morning and night. Small exchanges of love – at least Seungcheol believes it to be love – have become as regular as Jeonghan’s incomprehensible intellectual rants. Or his mania for colour.

He’s been blue since they fought. Seungcheol dreads it, as he turns the key in the lock and slips out of his shoes; he dreads the sight of cerulean or turquoise or navy because he knows exactly what it means. 

Jeonghan had warned him of this.

‘I’m home!’

Who’s the stickler for routine now? Seungcheol can’t stop himself from shouting up towards their bedroom, an unexpected warmth in his voice. His words taste too sweet, like honey, and he wishes he could be even just a little spiteful. After all, there’s no smell of cooking coming from the kitchen and no speaker playing Jeonghan’s favourite songs. They always sound so mournful; so bittersweet and rich with a swell of feeling that overflows like water. Seungcheol misses them now, in the silence. 

His blazer is tossed on the floor, his top button undone. If he were a harder man, a man with a heart and mind of his own, he’d march upstairs shouting. Maybe he’d walk out for good and take all his money with him – then Jeonghan would be sorry he ever grew cold – but Seungcheol is an entirely different creature. It would be like sawing off a limb, like plunging a knife into his beating heart. 

Like admitting he was really nothing to begin with. 

The stairs groan beneath him and the sound is somewhat comforting, much more pleasing to him than the absolute silence of his old apartment. It was too perfect. The only thing he sometimes misses, at night when he can’t quite fall asleep, is the scent of bleach and lemon. The satisfying shine on the marble countertop. The mirror that showed him how lonely he was.

There’s no truth to be found in a shared bathroom mirror – there’s almost always someone else reflected back in it. And Seungcheol never spares a thought for himself when Jeonghan is in view.

He already knows he wants to be hurt when he pushes open the bedroom door. He wants to see Jeonghan in acid-blue cyan, bright and spiteful enough to burn the lingering resentment from his mind, but instead Seungcheol is shocked. 

Jeonghan is on the bed. His hair – black, as it has been for the last few months – looking startlingly dark against the deep red of a half-buttoned shirt. It’s one of Seungcheol’s and it’s a little big on him; just long enough to cover him up, because Jeonghan _isn’t wearing anything underneath._ But that’s not even the most shocking part of this little scene.

Seungcheol has never seen Jeonghan in red before.

He doesn’t know what it means, and for a moment he flounders like he’s trying to stay afloat in deep water. Seungcheol normally feels like he has a good understanding of what Jeonghan is thinking. His synaesthesia is a handbook of sorts – a helpful but quirky user manual. Seungcheol tries to imagine the language of red;

Is it vengeful? Like blood that won’t wash off? Like burning-hot fury, so powerful it could brand your skin? Or maybe it’s boldness. Maybe its temptation, like a perfect red apple or a ruby or—

Red lips. Jeonghan’s mouth is made up with a sheen of audacious lipstick, and it draws attention to the soft, thin shape of it. With his lips slightly parted, Seungcheol thinks the makeup has him looking like a China doll or a girl that waits on corners for cars to stop.

Seungcheol knows a lot about those girls, and the knowledge rises in him like desperate desire. 

He forgets himself.

He’d never even dreamed Jeonghan had been lying there, waiting for him. In fact, Seungcheol had never thought about what Jeonghan did when he wasn’t around. It never really felt like his concern – but perhaps it should have been. Now, in the interim of stunned silence, he imagines him reclining on their bed with his hand between his thighs, teasing out cautious moans of pleasure. 

Without thinking – or knowing why – Seungcheol raises a hand to his heart. Just for a moment.

‘You’re home.’

‘I’m home.’

‘Good day?’

Jeonghan is talking normally – their feud forgotten or postponed – but his hand is trailing down his body, lower and lower and lower. 

‘Tiring as always. I just wanted to come home to you.’ Seungcheol undoes a few more of the buttons on his shirt.

Jeonghan pouts and Seungcheol wants to die. He can’t take much more of this. ‘Don’t be tired. I’ve waited for you. I’ve thought about you. I need you.’

This is how Jeonghan keeps him loyal, like a trained dog. Whenever he strays, whenever he doubts and misbehaves, he beats him and throws him a treat. The silent treatment had been the punishment. The shirt and the bare thighs and the lipstick are the reward that has Seungcheol ready to be a good boy.

It’s like he’s been put on a leash; Jeonghan pulls him in with his eyes and Seungcheol, in a rush of pent-up frustration, is already on top of him. Already pulling off his shirt. Jeonghan tries to unbutton his own, but Seungcheol grabs his hand.

‘No. It stays on. I like it,’ he says between rough kisses. When he pulls away and looks down, Jeonghan’s pretty lips are a mess of smudged red. Seungcheol wants Jeonghan’s mouth to part for him – he imagines the tightness of it closing around his fingers, wet and vital.

‘Is this how you want to be forgiven?’ Seungcheol asks. He’s talking to hold himself back, to delay filling Jeonghan’s mouth and hearing that satisfied sigh that always follows it. ‘I don’t even remember why we fought.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Jeonghan’s nails dig into his back. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ His lips chase Seungcheol’s until they collide again and the kiss is soft this time, more tender. Jeonghan has probably missed being adored. Was he waiting there, longing to be doted on and praised and worshipped?

And would Seungcheol be lying if he said he hadn’t wanted to kneel down and kiss the very ground he walks on?

Jeonghan moans and Seungcheol wastes no time taking Jeonghan’s hard dick in his hand and giving it some much needed attention. As if spurred on to some competitive streak, Jeonghan pulls him down and kisses along his neck, stopping to leave a love bite that Seungcheol can already feel blooming red and raw.

Red again.

Red is everywhere, surrounding them, swallowing them whole. It’s a deeper colour than the shirt hanging off Jeonghan’s thin shoulders; deeper, even, than the red sound of Jeonghan’s pants and cries as he squirms beneath him.

It feels vicious and taunting, his neediness. It only gets worse when he sees Seungcheol unbuckling his belt. Neither of them needs to say a word; it’s all subtext, unspoken but deeply felt and utterly consuming. 

Seungcheol is thankful there’s lube on the nightstand, because he doesn’t think he has the willpower to step away from Jeonghan for even a second. He has a slight foreboding feeling that if he were to look away, even briefly, the other boy would be lost to him again. He’d grow distant and cruel – more like the old Jeonghan that liked to play games and tease. 

So he keeps his eyes on him as he flicks open the cap. The look makes Jeonghan shudder and then, at the feeling of Seungcheol’s cock pushing inside him, he gasps. They don’t start slow – because why should they? Neither of them have any need for patience and as the evening gets darker and darker and Jeonghan becomes more and more bathed in shadow, Seungcheol loses his restraint. 

There’s no hope for him now.

He’s thrusting into Jeonghan, feeling his back sting with the sensation of sharp nails, completely lost to the desperate rhythm of their entwined bodies. 

_I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you_

There’s an unbearable, glorious pleasure building inside of him and as he nears his climax, Seungcheol sees Jeonghan smile. He’s ensnared his prey – Jeonghan might as well have his hands around Seungcheol’s neck. And oh, he’d love the feeling of Jeonghan pulling him towards death. Leading him to the underworld and making him taste the fruit of no return. 

Seungcheol doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t want to be that lonely boy anymore. He wants to love and be loved, no matter how terrible the price. 

_I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you_

He’s so close now and Jeonghan is too. Seungcheol wants to claim his boyfriend, his lover, his soulmate in the same way – he wants to leave his mark.

When he reaches a hand to Jeonghan’s throat the other boy gasps, but it’s a silent kind of surprise. Seungcheol is gentle at first, cautious, and then he grows bolder. When he feels Jeonghan reach his orgasm, he thinks he knows exactly what red is and he wants it to spread its dark, secret warmth right through him. Right through his hopeless heart. 

Seungcheol’s climax comes in a sudden wave. It drowns him, and it drowns out the whole world – the only thing he fixates on are Jeonghan’s red lips and the mess he’s made of the lipstick.

He rides out the feeling with two fingers in Jeonghan’s mouth and the sound of an exhausted, sated moan. 

Seungcheol’s mind is full of one thing.

_I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you_

He pulls back his hand and Jeonghan looks like he wants to speak.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading - this fic is deliberately quite ambiguous so you can make of it what you will...
> 
> Please leave a comment or follow me on twitter [@cruel_cupidd](https://twitter.com/cruel_cupidd)


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